“And now, the moment you have all been waiting for.”
The olive-skinned man raised his hand and fell silent. He wore a plain-coloured gown decorated with damasks in silver stitching and on his head he wore a rolled linen scarf that ended in a sphere-shaped cloth bulb, while his feet were clad in long slippers which curved up at the toe.
The eyes of at least fifty people followed the movements of his fingers, glittering with rings, which slowly moved aside the curtain of the tent erected near the oasis by the walls of Tingis. Not far away, a wide gap between two low towers led to the desert marshes that the merchants used every day to supply the garrison located in the new capital of Mauretania Tingitana.
When the dark-skinned child emerged from the shadows with a pair of theatrical skips, there was a prolonged buzz from the crowd.
“A moment of silence, please,” said the man in a solemn tone “Directly from the borders of the eastern provinces, here is Sibiam, the child prodigy.”
Clad in a white tunic that highlighted his ebony features, the child smiled and bowed.
“You fraud!” shouted someone in the crowd. “That’s your brother!”
The man raised an eyebrow and looked over at the small audience.
“Who dares question my words? Who dares mock this poor boy? If you only knew the troubles he has seen.” He went over to the child, grabbing his right hand and jerking it up to show a linen bandage that covered his fingers like a glove. “Look at what poverty can do!” He let the boy’s hand fall back down as if it were an object of no value and, an angry expression on his face, advanced towards the audience, many of whom instinctively retreated. “This poor child comes from a small village near Thugga. Until a few weeks ago he earned his living by collecting mule dung from the streets. One evening, while he was returning to his miserable hut after a gruelling day’s work with those few coins needed to feed his mother and his twelve brothers, he encountered a patrol of Roman soldiers.” As he said this, he raised his voice to arouse a hum of disapproval. “You all know what the legionaries are like,” he said, pointing to a patrol of auxiliaries who were watching the show from afar with indolent indifference. “They had no pity for this unfortunate boy and began to mock him.” He paused for a long time, looking the spectators in the face one by one. The people of Tingis were still not happy about all the legionaries’ sandals walking the roads that until only a few months before had been patrolled by the deposed king’s militia, and their feelings were clearly evident in their faces and their attitude, even when they were pretending to be enjoying themselves.
“Until,” the master of ceremonies resumed, “they noticed the bag of coins hanging from his belt.” He walked back to the boy to simulate the scene. “So they tore it from him and started throwing it to each other in mockery. And finally,” he added, bowing his head, “when the poor boy was exhausted from crying, they saw nearby a large brazier that burned at the foot of a statue of the great Sun god whom we have all venerated since the dawn of time.” Many of the onlookers looked deferentially to the sky while the Roman soldiers chuckled in amusement.
“They threw the bag of money into the flames,” the man resumed, “and left this poor wretch to watch his treasure go up in smoke.” He took the child by the shoulders and dragged him in front of the crowd. “In those terrible moments, Sibiam thought of his loved ones. He thought of the parents and brothers who were anxiously awaiting his return – and above all, he thought of the return of his money.”
The involuntary joke made people laugh loudly.
“Please, a little respect for suffering.”
The spectators fell silent, some of them lowering their eyes and others biting their lips remorsefully.
“But Sibiam did not lose heart. He knelt in front of the statue of the god to invoke his mercy. And the god spoke to him.”
The crowd stared in wonder.
“He told him to get his money back from the flames without delay and without fear. His god would protect him. Because that was what was right!” He stopped for another theatrical pause. “And Sibiam obeyed. He stretched his small hand slowly toward the flames of the brazier,” he said, stretching out his fingers as though to grab the hair of the people in the front row,” and then, closing his eyes as a tremor ran through his whole body, he pushed it into the burning ashes and grabbed his coins. When he withdrew it, it was intact and the coins were cold as ice. Not only had the great Sun god allowed him to recover the little money he had laboriously earned, but he had also given him a gift.” The man with the damask tunic turned around and looked at the audience from over his shoulder. “From that day on, Sibiam’s hands no longer fear the flames.”
A murmur of wonder broke out in response to the final words of the story. The master of ceremonies nodded several times but remained motionless. “Today,” he resumed suddenly, “you will all have proof of this. You will have the privilege of seeing for yourself the miracle performed by the great Sun god.” He nodded to the boy who rushed into the tent only to re-emerge carrying a small brazier. With a few practiced gestures, he filled it and lit it. The man approached and drew a tinkling bag from the pleats of his overcoat. He reached inside and pulled out a coin.
“I will throw one of these coins into the flames and show you the incredible power of this child.”
“Why does he have a bandaged hand?” asked a man in the crowd.
The master of ceremonies hesitated. “You see,” he said disconsolately. “The Sun god has given this little beggar great power but he is not happy if he uses it when not in grave necessity. This is why Sibiam runs a great risk each time, and often the god punishes him for his daring. The flesh of his hand cooks like a lamb shank and rotting wounds form between the fingers, though he still feels no pain. But what can one do?” The man shook his head. “The child has to eat, and physical suffering is sometimes better than the hunger that gnaws at your guts.”
The onlookers exchanged disgusted looks. As the buzz grew, the Romans decided to abandon the show and continue their patrol.
“Unless,” the gaze of the olive-skinned man darted among the spectators, “your generosity prevents this torture. If each of you decided to give him only a single coin, I am convinced that he would give up and you would not have the suffering of a boy on your consciences.”
“That man is right,” said another voice, “let us not make that child suffer. I will donate a coin.”
The exhortation convinced many of the spectators. Sibiam scampered between the front rows and returned to the stage with a swollen bag.
“Just a moment,” said a languid voice “If this child has such great power, let him prove it. For five bronze coins. Such a figure is worth a little burn.”
A burly man who was preceded by a belly of prodigious proportions pushed his way through the crowd. He was dressed in white and numerous rings and bracelets decorated hands evidently not accustomed to manual labour. “I will throw them into the fire myself,” he said, standing in front of the brazier, “and if he can take them, they are his.”
The master of ceremonies sighed and exchanged glances with the boy. Sibiam shook his head in fear. The fat man did not move.
“Well?” he insisted. “You don’t want me to believe that you are liars, surely?”
“With five bronze coins,” replied the acrobat, “this child would eat for a month. But we cannot accept.”
“See?” said the fat man, addressing the people watching the scene intently. “It’s all a trick, and this refusal is the proof of it. I’ve followed these two charlatans all the way along the coast. I’ve seen every single one of their… shows. And each time it was the same story. I’ve never seen that child put his hand in the fire.”
“All right.” The child’s voice was sharp but trembling. “I accept.”
The fat man shot him a glance.
“No, Sibiam. Please,” the master of ceremonies implored him, kneeling down. “I don’t want to see you suffer again.” As he spoke he watched the audience’s reaction from the corner of his eye.
“I want to take the risk. My brothers are hungry. And I feel that the great Sun god is with me.” At those words the crowd turned on the fat man and began shouting insults at him. In a few moments the boy had become the hero of the day.
The master of ceremonies waited a few moments for the reaction that usually came at that moment of the performance. And in fact a lanky man pushed his way through the crowd and came up to the stage. “Here, take it,” he said throwing a coin at his feet. “Throw that into the fire too. If he can pick up the others, it’s his.”
In no time at all, the man’s gesture was being repeated by dozens of other spectators. The master of ceremonies picked up the pile of money and threw it into the smoking brazier, and then, with calculated gestures, invited the man to throw in his five bronze coins.
“And now,” he said, pushing Sibiam towards the brazier, “let us all pray to the great Sun god.”
The child slowly released his hand from the bandages, rubbed his fingers and then stretched out his arm. His fingers slowly approached the coins.
Silence fell in the square. Even the Roman soldiers who had been about to leave seemed intrigued and stood with folded arms looking at the crowd of people surrounding the tent.
The child’s hand moved as if to caress the smoke rising from the embers, then Sibiam clenched his fist and withdrew his arm.
“Is this one of your coins?” he then said, showing his open hand to the fat man. A greenish disc of metal sparkled in his palm. The man grimaced. He turned to the crowd and nodded reluctantly. The audience exploded in applause.
“Gentlemen, the great god Sun has spoken,” said the master of ceremonies, “and he has said that this child deserves these coins. We thank you for your attention and for the generosity you have shown towards this little beggar.” Sibiam accompanied the man’s words with a small bow. “And we wish you a wonderful evening. The show is over and…”
“No it isn’t, my friend. The show is not over at all.”
The master of ceremonies turned slowly and saw one of the auxiliaries standing, arms folded across his chest, looking at him.
“The boy has to take all the coins,” he said, gesturing to the brazier with his chin. “Those were the terms of the agreement, as I remember.”
“Yeah,” someone said, “that’s right.”
“Exactly – he has to take them all,” added another. The Roman soldiers – the master of ceremonies counted half a dozen – made their way through the crowd with unsheathed swords.
“If he wants to take them home, let him take his coins,” said the one who seemed to be the commander of the patrol. “Otherwise we will.”
The man in the damask robe looked around him and exchanged a nod with the fat man, who moved his hand slowly and grasped the handle of a dagger between the folds of his robes. The legionaries advanced and the crowd began to thin out, many leaving with bowed heads and disappearing into the neighbouring streets. As early evening approached, it was the habit in African cities for the shops to close and families to meet by the fire for dinner. Soon the last of the possible witnesses had disappeared.
The soldiers surrounded the stage. Sibiam counted about twenty lorica hamatae, a dozen spears and several swords. The leader of the squad, the only one who also sported armour on his right arm, stopped right in front of the boy.
“So? Don’t we want to give this fascinating show a suitable finale? You know what, you lot are really good,” the patrol leader said. “Really excellent acting. Very good at arousing powerful emotions. But allow me to inform you that there are too many performers for so little loot.”
“Performers?” said the master of ceremonies. “I don’t understand.”
“A well-designed trick.” Without waiting for an order, the soldiers who accompanied him grabbed the fat man like a sack and lifted him from the ground. They took the dagger from him and flung it away. “An accomplice in the audience. Did you think we didn’t notice your men stationed on every corner of the square?”
The acrobat followed the pointed finger of the legionary and suddenly he noticed the presence of some shadowy silhouettes.
“So come on, lad,” said the soldier, standing with folded arms. “Show me what you can do.”
His eyes like those of a stray kitten caught in the rain, Sibiam swallowed. He slowly removed the bandages from his right hand, folded them carefully, and placed them next to the brazier, then he stretched out his arm and stopped his open fingers just above the embers. The upper layer of the skin began to take on a rosy complexion that became more and more intense.
The child stood in front of the brazier with his back to the soldier, but a sudden shove moved him out of the way.
“Are you trying to pull a fast one?” asked the soldier.
Sibiam showed him his closed hand.
“Open it.”
Sibiam obeyed and showed the legionary a copper coin.
“But how…?” The soldier backed away. “Do it again!”
The child hesitated.
“Do it, I said!”
Sibiam shook his head.
The commander of the auxiliaries came forward impatiently.
“There must be some trick to it.”
He bent down and saw the coins hidden under the brazier.
“There it is,” he said at last with a grin of satisfaction. “And now you show me how you did it because I was watching your hands the whole time I never saw you rummaging down here.”
“Look out!”
The cry made him turn around and in that moment an arrow with a smoking tip thudded into the wood of one of the steps of the stage. His eyes wide with surprise, the legionary opened his mouth, but no sound came out. A second arrow had just pierced his throat.
Sibiam looked at the soldiers, then at the back of the square. Instinct told him to collect the coins and escape, and he barely had time to take refuge in the tent to avoid the other arrows flying in search of their targets.
*
“The next time I allow myself to be persuaded to take part in one of your productions, Bairo, I authorise you to cut my testicles off and feed them at the beasts in the arena.”
At the hiss of the second arrow, the fat man had taken shelter behind the curtain after crawling with difficulty between all the objects scattered over the stage. The master of ceremonies had hidden beneath the stage and was watching the trajectories of the arrows that rained from the sky, fearing he would be pierced from one moment to the next. Before his eyes were the corpses of two auxiliaries and four soldiers who were still alive but, terrified, were trying to take cover behind the shields.
“I hope they’re not angry with us because of the show,” he said.
“Who do you think you are?” gasped the fat man. “This is an ambush,” he added, grabbing up an arrow that had ended up next to him, “and only the Berbers make arrows as good as this.”
“Ambush?”
“They took advantage of the confusion our show generated to get into position without being seen, and when all the spectators left they decided to start the dance. It’s been happening more and more often recently. These suicide attacks are extremely vexatious for the community – as well as for those trying to earn an honest living by cheating, like us.”
One auxiliary had the foolish idea of standing up and trying to escape, but before he had taken three steps he fell to the ground, pierced by at least two arrows.
“Where are they firing from?” asked Bairo.
“If I knew that, I would also know which way to run,” the fat man replied.
“This way,” said the boy as he darted out of the tent. He took a couple of leaps and slipped into an alley.
“Do we follow him?” asked Bairo, peering out of his shelter. An arrow missed him by a hair’s breadth but a moment later the blade of a sword struck him in the back. The fat man watched the scene with terror. The three rebels who had appeared behind the stage had mistaken him for an enemy soldier and hadn’t bothered to check if they were right. They all wore transparent blue tagelmusts that covered their bodies and concealed their features, revealing only the shape of their eyes. Over the tagelmusts they wore burnouses, the Berber’s unmistakable hooded cloaks.
The fat man made his decision. With a speed that was startlingly fast for someone of his size, he came out into the open and started running in the same direction that the boy had disappeared. “Sibiam, wait for me!” he shouted, his voice booming as if inside a cave.
*
The alley was empty and dark. A dusty whitish light stirred in the air as though someone had just shaken a carpet to clean it of soot. From the square came the clang of weapons. The sentinels on the towers were giving support to the soldiers at the centre of the battle and now the two sides were evenly matched. The attackers, though, were placed in strategic positions from which they continued to carry out their meticulous sniping. The fat man hoped that the fight would keep them all busy long enough for him to escape, but it was not to be: a mantle like two bat wings spread in flight descended to block his way. His face hidden by his veil, the rebel swung in front of him a singular sword with a curved blade whose design was reminiscent of the crescent of the moon on a night of low tide. The rebel moved quickly and quietly, and when he put his weapon back in its scabbard, the fat man’s head was still rolling across the cobblestones.
As the victor was bending over the remains of the corpse to rummage through the folds of its tunic, a Roman soldier appeared at the end of the street, noticed the kneeling predator and ran over to him with unsheathed sword, the studs of his cingulum sparkling with every movement of his body.
“The problem is that we’ve been too nice to you natives,” the auxiliary hissed, as he his weapon to the adversary, “but there’s always time to fix that.”
The rebel didn’t answer immediately. He let the Roman advance then tilted his head to the side, said a few words in Tamazight and drew his curved sword.
“Are you challenging me?” said the Roman sarcastically. “Do you and that bent sword of yours think you can take on a soldier of Rome?”
The Berber nodded, but the voice that accompanied his gesture came from behind the auxiliary. The soldier spun around: four other Berber rebels were advancing down the alley. And as if by magic, two others had also appeared behind his opponent.
“Seven beggars against a Roman soldier,” said the auxiliary, failing to hide a trace of fear. “I’d say that’s a fair fight.”
The rebel jumped forward and swung, the soldier instinctively dodging his blade and falling on a pile of wicker baskets. There was a door behind them, but it appeared to be barred from the inside. Dozens of eyes were following the battle from inside their homes without intervening, the soldier was sure of it. Just as sure as he was of who they wanted to emerge victorious.
The auxiliary made to get up, sending the last two baskets tumbling sideways like bales of hay and revealing the form of a little boy. “You’re that kid whose hand doesn’t burn,” said the soldier. “Go and call my companions while I try to keep them at bay. Get a move on.”
Sibiam nodded, but as he tried to escape he found his way blocked by two rebels, who forced him to retreat into a corner. “I’m afraid they won’t let me pass!”
A sword came down on the auxiliary’s arm, the blade sinking into the flesh and only stopping when it hit the bone. The second swing hit its mark too, cutting off two fingers from his other hand. The third grazed his face, leaving a red furrow on his cheek that began to ooze blood.
Dazed, the soldier drew back. The pain in his injured hand was unbearable, but if he dropped his sword, he would be lost.
“Try,” he shouted to the child. “Please.”
Sibiam sensed the terror in that voice. He had never imagined he would hear a Roman soldier begging. But he remained immobile. It was impossible to get through a human wall like the one formed by the two gigantic Berbers that stood in front of him.
The auxiliary took one, two, three steps backwards, and then stumbled and sat down. His sword dropped from his hands, clanging as it hit the ground at his opponent’s feet, almost as though independently communicating its surrender of its master. “By the gods,” he whispered, sensing the boy’s presence just behind him, “it’s over.”
The rebel started running towards him, his curved sword raised high over his head. He held it in two hands like a banner in the wind and its blade reflected the grey walls, as well as the blue gleams of the costumes of the desert men who watched this deadly dance.
The Roman soldier slowly removed his helmet, defiantly revealing his forehead to his adversary, and took a deep breath that made his chest swell and the light glint on the fine workmanship of his cuirass.
Sibiam opened his hand as the curved blade touched the highest point of its parabola. The legionary’s fallen sword trembled and raised itself a palm’s distance from the ground. As the rebel’s weapon began its descent, the sword began to move towards the small brown-skinned hand that reached out for it.
Suddenly the Roman found his weapon in his right hand.
“There,” the child whispered.
And the Roman, without thinking, thrust his sword forwards.
The rebel’s eyes widened. The sword fell from his hands like a feather, but its slow-moving descent seemed to be hindered by reverse gravitation. The Berber died hearing the sound of the blade he had been sharpening for years kissing the dust.
“How can this be?”
The auxiliary tried in vain to get back on his feet. He had lost a lot of blood and his strength was deserting him.
At that moment a cry called the attention of the other rebels. It was coming from the opposite side of the road and was being made by an unarmed man with behind him a dozen fully armed legionaries. Their sagums concealed the upper part of their uniforms but the auxiliary could see the black hems of their tunics.
“I really must be dying,” the wounded soldier gasped. “No legionaries wear black.”
The squad approached with a firm step and this was enough to put the other Berbers to flight.
The unarmed man was completely bald and his aquiline nose stood out like a beak on his face. He ignored the soldier completely and knelt down in front of the child.
“What’s your name?”
“Sibiam.”
“Do it again, Sibiam. Do it for me.”
The child took the sword from the hands of the collapsed soldier and threw it away. He looked first at the man in civilian clothes and then at his armed companions.
“Who are you? What do you want from me?”
“Come on. Do it for me, like I asked you.”
The dark-skinned boy raised his arm. Very slowly. The auxiliary watched that gesture as his vision began to blur. The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was a sword rising from the ground and floating through the air like a veil carried upon the wind.